


Girls Chase Boys, Chase Girls

by fortunatefolly



Category: The Closer
Genre: F/F, Femslash, but with brenda and sharon i like to play around with the idea, i dont' believe in soul mates i really don't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4763675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortunatefolly/pseuds/fortunatefolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is that you have written on your wrist? Sort of AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Girls Chase Boys, Chase Girls

**Author's Note:**

> Don't think too hard about the logic behind the AU. It will probably fall apart...

They are six months into their affair when Brenda finally works up the courage to ask Sharon. It’s considered rude, at least here in America, to ask people about the name on their wrist, but the curiosity has been killing her. She’s still covered in sweat, panting lightly after her last orgasm, but she fluffs up Sharon’s pillow and leans up on her elbow, facing Sharon. She wants to ask directly, but even she has enough tact to be a little more delicate. She takes Sharon’s right wrist and runs her thumb over the inside, over the bones, where the name is covered up, probably with make up or paint. Sharon never wears bracelets, but Brenda has never even seen the writing. 

“Did you ever find the person?” 

Sharon turns her head to face Brenda, eyebrows raised. She doesn’t respond, just stares quietly at Brenda’s preposterous question, and Brenda caves.

“I…I’m just curious. My parents don’t have matchin' names, and they’ve been happily married for decades. I’ve never been with anyone who matches the name on my wrist either.” But Sharon doesn’t respond, doesn’t ask Brenda what the name on her wrist is, just smiles and leans over, kisses Brenda softly.

“You should shower. It’s almost 10pm, and you need to go home.” She doesn’t say Fritz’s name, doesn’t say Brenda needs to go back to her husband. “Home” has become a euphemism for Brenda’s other life, the life full of grocery shopping and laundry and a cat, fights over working too late and what to order for dinner, the life Sharon can never have with her.

Brenda sees a kind of sadness in Sharon’s eyes that she has never seen before. It’s not the sadness that Brenda has seen flicker in the emerald eyes when they say good-bye after their little trysts. It’s a new kind of sadness, the kind that seems to be buried inside a broken heart.

Brenda sighs before dropping Sharon’s wrist and standing up. Sharon is right. Brenda needs a shower, and then she needs to go home. She had made up some flimsy excuse to tell her husband. Maybe she had said something about working late? She can’t even remember. Sharon was kissing the inside of her thighs at the time, and she had barely been able to talk to Fritz without moaning. 

**

Sharon stands in her kitchen, robe belted tightly around her waist, and she tries to decide if she should make some decaf or just settle for water. Brenda is showering, and Sharon needed to get out of the bedroom, away from the bed. She hadn’t expected Brenda to ever ask about the name on her wrist, and now, her left thumb is absentmindedly running over it.

Sharon had tattooed her wrist with ink that matched her skin color. It had been a big trend when she was in college, her generation’s way of saying ‘fuck you’ to the universe. The latter half of the twentieth century had been filled urban legends, romantic love stories told in books, movies, editorials, of people who traveled the globe in search of the person whose name was written on their wrist. 

The reality of it was that only a small number of people actually partnered up with the person on their wrist. When Sharon was in college, when she had met Jack, she had looked up all of the information she could. She was in love with him, she wanted to be with him, but his last name wasn’t the one on her wrist. According to a national study conducted in the early 80's, scientists theorized that people were born with a name, usually a family name (perhaps a soulmate, though the general scientific community had scoffed at the idea of something like destiny), permanently written on the inside of their right wrist. They believed it was a global side effect of the atomic bombs dropped on Japan, affecting only those born after 1945, something to do with trace amounts of radiation. According to that study, only 12% of people in America actually paired up with their wrist partner. The scientists had concluded that given how widespread and common last names were, especially here in America, trying to find the right “Smith” would be impossible, and that a person’s chances of being happy were greater if they just ignored the name. Years later, it was revealed that the scientists had omitted a key finding from their final publications – for the 12% of the population that did find their matching wrist partner, 90% of those partnerships lasted 20 years or more. When the study had been conducted in the early 80’s, they couldn’t verify more than 20 years. Follow-up studies concluded that after 40 years, 85% of those matching pairings were still happily paired.

With her limited information and research in hand, Sharon had decided to just go ahead and marry Jack. They had both decided to tattoo over their wrists. It had been Jack’s idea. 

Sharon scoffs as she reaches into her cupboard for the coffee beans, the sleeve of her robe falling down her arm as she reaches up. The square patch of ink on her wrist isn’t very obvious unless she looks closely. When she had finally separated from Jack for good, she had considered removing the ink. People who later removed the ink over the names learned that even with the laser removal, the name stayed. 

After meeting Brenda, she had decided against it. What does it matter if Johnson is scrawled across her wrist? In over half the cases, a persons's supposed pairing doesn't have a reciprocating match on their own wrist. What does it matter if she is desperately in love with Brenda? So what if they have been sleeping together for six months, and Brenda has made off hand remarks of being in love with Sharon too? Brenda is still married to her husband, and Sharon isn’t going to beg. And if Brenda is never going to leave Fritz, maybe it's time to end this thing. Better end it now and deal with a little bit of hurt instead of ending it later and being devastated. 

**

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ is all that Brenda repeats to herself, all throughout the shower, and now as she puts on her clothes, tucking her underwear into a zippered compartment in her purse. She shouldn’t have asked Sharon about the name. In America, the name on the wrist is a secret only shared by one’s closest family and friends, and usually never with lovers to whom they aren’t married. It’s a weird American thing. In France, everybody walks around with the name proudly on display. But then again, in France, everyone’s wrist names are catalogued into a database at birth, and when they become legal adults, they can ask for a list of persons in the country with the corresponding last name. Here in America, cosmetic and sporting companies make billions of dollars each year developing make-up and spray on skin paint and bracelets and sporting watches that cleverly hide the name. 

What was she hoping to accomplish by asking Sharon that question? It’s not like the last name on her wrist is Sharon’s. There is a small, ridiculous part of her that believes, or maybe blindly wishes, Sharon is the one. They just seem to work. It wasn’t until Sharon that Brenda finally understood what it meant to be in love with somebody, not just settle for somebody she could tolerate.

She buttons up her shirt and smiles as she sees the mess that they have of Sharon’s bed. Then her smile falters into a pursing of her lips as she realizes she has to leave, the bed serving merely as a reminder that this is nothing more than a tawdry affair. In the beginning, they had talked about ending it. But after a while, neither of them brought it up, as though they had silently agreed to the status quo. They fuck, sometimes they do drinks, then Brenda goes home to her husband. Every time Sharon looks like she’s about to say something serious, Brenda’s stomach ties itself into knots, worried that Sharon has finally decided to end it. But then Sharon just changes her mind and says something else instead.

She’s in love with Sharon. She suspects Sharon is in love with her too. They’ve never talked about it, and she’s not sure how they’ll manage that conversation, if they will ever have it. If Sharon asked, she would leave Fritz in a heartbeat. But without knowing that Sharon would be there for her, why would Brenda leave a stable husband who takes care of her? 

**

Sharon hears it, the soft padding of bare feet coming down the hallway, then the loud thunk of Brenda’s black purse on her countertop. The coffee machine is sputtering, the finals drips of the dark liquid falling into the pot. 

“Decaf?” Even with simple words like ‘decaf’ Brenda’s twang is noticeable, especially now that she’s both tired and relaxed. 

Sharon nods, but stays rooted to her spot in front of the counter, her hands folded together. Brenda's hair is still dry, but her cheeks are rosy, even underneath the reapplied foundation. She looks good, full of life, and Sharon feels almost jealous. This affair is slowly killing her, the sneaking around, the hushed phone calls, the good-byes without knowing when they'll meet-up next, but Brenda seems to thrive on it.

“Ooh, can I get some?” Brenda asks mostly out of courtesy, already passing Sharon to reach into the cupboard for a mug, pouring herself a generous amount. She then settles on one of the high stools, peering at Sharon over the bar.

“Brenda.” Her voice is heavy, and she knows Brenda can sense it. Brenda sits up a little straighter, the mug clinking on the bar as she sets it down. 

“Brenda I don’t know how much longer I can do this.” It’s true. This is no way to live. There are only so many times Sharon can watch Brenda walk out her door, only so many times she can break down crying after Brenda leaves, curled into herself on her couch while Brenda probably goes home and cuddles with her husband. 

Brenda sighs, and doesn’t respond. Then she does what she always does when confronted with unpleasant truths. She reaches up, pulls out the hair tie and her blonde curls tumble down over her shoulders. She reaches down, straightens out the wrinkles on her shirt, closes the little opening near her breasts where the shirt buttons can’t quite seem to keep the shirt closed. Finally, she reaches for her sleeves, pushing them up her arms.

That’s when Sharon sees it, the name on her wrist, just a passing glimpse of black letters. She’s never seen it before. Brenda is always either wearing a bracelet or spray on paint. It’s hidden again, underneath the bar, where undoubtedly, Brenda is wringing her hands together.

Her voice shaking, Sharon manages “Brenda, what does your wrist say?”

Confused by the sudden change in conversation, Brenda furrows her brows before looking down, noticing that the spray on paint has been rubbed off in the shower. She shoves her sleeves back down, covering up her wrist.

“Oh, I guess I haven’t reapplied the paint since last week.”

“What does it say?” Sharon repeats, her voice a little more desperate. She only caught a fleeting glimpse, but it was enough to make her blood freeze, enough for her to need confirmation that what she saw couldn’t have possibly been correct.

“Oh, now you’re interested? Before, you couldn’t give a damn.” 

“Brenda,” Sharon says, her hands now gripping her counter so tightly that they have started turning white.

“It doesn’t matter, Sharon. It’s not Raydor. Wishful thinkin’ for us both,” Brenda scoffs and then picks up her drink again. 

Damn Brenda and her stubbornness. Sharon knows she’s being just as rude as Brenda was before, if not more so, demanding to know the name. She supposes she could just move on, pretend this never happened, convince herself that what she thinks she saw is incorrect. But it’s going to drive her insane, and she needs to know. She swallows her pride and takes in a long calming breath. 

“Raydor isn’t my maiden name.” 

Brenda looks up, her eyes wider than Sharon has ever seen them. She can see the emotions and thoughts flickering across her eyes, her processing Sharon’s words, realizing what it could mean, and then the glimmer of hope replaced by fear. Because the odds are not in their favor, and the disappointment of being wrong is going to be worse, now that they have felt that tiny ray of hope. 

Sharon sees those pearly whites clamping down on her bottom lip. She’s anxious, and she knows. She knows that this means something to them both, that as cynical as life had made them both, underneath the layers of reality and life, rests the wide-eyed dreams of youth.

Brenda lays her arm on the bar, palm up, and Sharon brings up trembling hands to push up the sleeve.

_Well, shit._


End file.
